The river dawdles to hold a mirror for you
where you may see yourself
as you are, a traveller

R. S. Thomas

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How do you talk about a pilgrimage?

It feels like uncovering a sacred relic, or like exposing something too personal, too tender.

If I write about it, will the sweetness fade – like a plucked magnolia blossom that bruises within hours?

I’ll try.

The route we are traveling on this tour will be following the ancient pilgrim’s path from the coast of North Wales to the stunning Llyn Peninsula. We will visit ancient churches and various holy sites.

These sites will be hosted by local guides. From them we will hear some of the old Celtic legends and we will visit sacred shrines and wells. And we will finish our journey at the venerable St. David’s Cathedral.

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Today, on our drive, bright yellow gorse lines the pathway across a landscape that is rugged and windswept. But the flowers are thriving – so many varieties – who would think they could survive this harsh environment?

Stone walls divide the fields everywhere, keeping the sheep with new baby lambs safe within. Ancient divisions of properties.

The roads are crazy – just narrow cow-paths, really. Our driver, Steve, has to back up and give way constantly along the winding drive.

This afternoon, we are headed to the Island of Anglesey to visit the Roman fort town of Beaumaris, where the church and monastic ruins of St. Seriol stand.

When we arrive, we meet some church members, and have a brief prayer service. Then we are free to explore the 12th century ruins.

These rocks, this old church foundation, it is so ancient it blows my mind.

Some of us meander across the medieval cemetery, others take sips from the well. No one speaks.

The wind gently tousles the grasses and wildflowers in the courtyard. I feel the spirits stir – whispers from either a pilgrimage made centuries ago or maybe just yesterday?

What is this place?

I follow my sister across the timeworn path to the healing well. Under the rock archway, the black water sits in a deep pool – it is shiny with bright green moss, and very still.

I ask her to offer a blessing.

So she pours a cupped handful of the cold water on my head, and she sprinkles a little on my hands.

My head and my hands, to heal my addled brain and my insecurity.

Then she dips her own sore ankle into the deep, icy cold water.

My eyes fill up at her reverence and care. I feel such grace – a lightness, and a shining.

She is a mirror.

And today, her presence reflects the sunlight from the churchyard, the bright stones, the buttery yellow gorse.

Her gentle way allows me the space to breathe in deep and to open up my chest.

I pull back my shoulders and find my balance on the cobblestones.

Today I feel solid and steady, like the timeless yew trees pushing up their roots beneath the graves here in the churchyard.

I feel free.

There is something to this place, something about unburdening, something about letting go.

The limpid well, my tired brain – all things muddled just want to run clear.

photos: Ann Carda